iFanfic
by The Earth's Unwavering Flame
Summary: Freddie rants about the wonders and the nubbiness of Fanfiction. Told entirely in his POV. Basically just a parody by our favourite technical producer!


**iFanfic**

A fictional essay by Freddie Benson. Okay, more like a rant. Still: Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own iCarly, because I'm just a boring old technical manager who tapes every second of the show, gives feedback, created iCarly's official website, manages all the special effects, and is the show hosts' best friend.

* * *

Out of each and every site on the Internet, there were two websites that Carly, Sam, and I checked out regularly: iCarly (no kidding) and---check this out---fanfiction.

At the moment, I'm at Carly's. As usual. What _isn't _usual is that I'm puking my brains out in the toilet in Spencer's bathroom while a purple rubber ducky watches. As if Puckett didn't give me enough to worry about…those M rated fics are gonna haunt me till I'm 96. Ouch. Bad mental image.

It's not as if I haven't thought about the M-scenes...after all, I'm not eight. Just don't tell Carly and Sam. They'll shave me bald, burn my arms off and break both my legs if I'm lucky. Which I'm not.

Ah, well, the stories out there aren't too bad. Some are pretty awesome, and most of them were extremely close to the real deal. Look, before the smell in here becomes unbearable, I'd better fill all you fans on how we were aquainted with this site.

Ever since Frank (my best guy friend) broadcasted the world of Fanfiction to the whole school over lunch, Carly has become a slave. That would have been a good thing if it was to me, but noo! Fanfiction won her over! And worse, she'd gotten Sam hooked too. The last time I'd walked in on them at Carly's apartment, Sam had been gasping with laughter, and Carls was crying. Literally crying.

"Why?" I asked.

"Hey!" Sam hacked, "You've got to check this out! Carlz, bring up the second window! That "iCrave Cookies" thing! It's even lamer than you, Freddork!"

Carly replied with a sob.

What a nubby website. "Seriously," I growled, heading for the fridge, "What's so _great _about that stupid site?? It doesn't even have colour! And you're all totally hooked on it like it's some hot new laptop!" Angrily I yanked open the fridge door and extracted a soda, slamming it shut a little harder than necessary.

"You're jealous already?" Puckett's eyes were sarcastically wide. "Wow. I thought it would take at least a few more days."

I gave her my most withering look. "Carly, what's up?"

Carly blew her nose. "I can't help it," she hiccupped. "This is the most _depressing _thing I have _ever _read in my _life._" She slid over on her stool so that her blonde-headed, demonic best friend could share it. "Freddie, you have to read at least one fanfic. Please?"

If it were Sam, I'd have replied with a "forget it", but this was Carly. My not-so-secret crush. I would have to think of some kind of logical, polite answer instead.

"Fine. But we go live in three hours, so just _one _story." As if I needed three hours to read some nub's creation.

Well, I did. I got engrossed. Captivated. Drawn. Hooked! The only time one of us looked up during the three hours was when Spencer came home with a ham pizza (guess who that was?).

"Hey, you guys. Just went over to Matt's." Spencer plopped the pizza down on the counter and walked whistling into his bedroom.

By the way: what was with the fanfictors (authors) thinking that Spencer's only friend is Socko? _We're _his friends...and Matt...and...well, I guess that was it. Still.

We had read, bookmarked, and reviewed over 48 stories when Carly brought up the idea of our web show.

I stared at her.

"OH SHOOT! iCARLY!"

We all knew that we were too late. I couldn't believe myself. I'd gotten curbed by some annoying, underrated website. What was wrong with me? Fredward Benson, tech master, has gotten distracted by a site that is not his own. Incredible.

So I did the logical thing: I shrugged and went back to my reading.

* * *

By Freddie Benson

p.s. Keep it up, you guys!


End file.
